Of Life
by Eavis
Summary: Sequel to 'No More Random Goils' Being a document containing, pertaining, and arranging the Conlons' married life. A series of oneshots in chronological order. Give it a try. It can't hurt, and who knows? You might like it...
1. Spot Did WHAT!

Race arrived at the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House, after having dropped Ella off safely at her house ("At least now I know where it is") and hesitated outside the door for a moment before going in.

He saw Dash right away, seated next to Alto and playing poker. He made his way over and cleared his throat, "Hey, Dash?"

She looked up. "Racetrack, what're you doin' ovah here?"

"Um, can I talk to you foah a minute? It's about Spot."

Dash's face went very blank, and she stood up, pulling Alto with her. "Yeah, come on."

Once they were outside Dash demanded, "What is it? Is Spot all right?"

"Yeah, he's fine." Race smirked. "Actually, I suspect he's more than fine."

Dash looked at him suspiciously. "Tell me what you mean, _right now_."

Now he actually had to tell her, he didn't quite know how. Telling a possessive sister that her brother is married is never easy, and when said sister and brother are Spot and Dash Conlon, well, you'd rather not have the job.

Race had no idea how much, if at all, Dash had liked Jeans. He drew in a quick breath and blurted, "Spot and Jeans got married a half an hour ago."

It was a good thing Alto was there or Racetrack might have been shaken to pieces.

"Where are they?" Dash demanded, struggling to get away from Alto's restraining hold.

Race was glad he was able to answer truthfully. "I dunno."

"Dash, settle down and let Race tell it to you from the beginning." Alto calmly said, forcing her to sit beside him on the step.

She elbowed him, but folded her arms and looked expectantly at Racetrack.

"Well, da foist I hoid about it, Jeans comes into our lodging house and practically forces me to come and be a witness for her and Spot's wedding, then I saw who the other witness was and-" he noticed Dash's foot begin to tap impatiently and skipped ahead hastily, "So, we went to dis little church and dey tied the knot den Jeans asked me to come tell you." He looked somewhat nervously at Dash.

She continued to sit with her arms folded, staring into space.

Alto cleared his throat and said, "Thanks for coming to tell us, Racetrack."

Race nodded an turned to go, then called back over his shoulder, "Spot said they wouldn't be back for a while."

Alto looked at the girl by his side. "You all right, Dash?"

She got up. "Yeah, don't worry about me. I'm gonna go think for a bit. Do me a favah and don't tell everyone else yet."

He nodded. "Sure." As he watched her walk towards the docks, for the first time he thought about how hard it must be for Dash to be Spot Conlon's sister.

She was fiercely proud of her brother, he knew, but co-running Brooklyn couldn't be easy.

Alto got up. Fine or not, he was going to go find Dash. He walked down to the docks and saw her.

She was staring down into the water, and her shoulders were shaking.

He was by her side in an instant, pulling her close to him and stroking her hair, murmuring in Spanish comfortingly.

In all the years he'd known her, he'd never seen her cry, but now she clung to him like a baby.

In a few minutes she sat up and wiped her face, still sniffling. "I thought I told you not to worry about me."

"I was not worried about Dash Conlon. I was worried about _you_. Want to talk?" He offered his knee for a seat.

"I guess." She said, sitting down on it. He ran his fingers gently through her hair.

"Well," she began, "Spot's always been the one in charge. I mean, I've been in charge, but..." she trailed off. "I'd better start at the beginning." And sitting on Alto's knee at the water front, she told him, as far back as she could remember, her life's story.

"So as I see it," Alto said when she was finished, "you feel that, by marrying Jeans, Spot betrayed you because now his primary concern is taking care of Jeans instead of you. Am I right?"

"Yeah."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Oh, I don't know." She looked at him wearily. "I'm tired of being strong. You tell me."

"All right. _I'm_ going to take care of you now. When can we get married?"

Dash pulled away and stared at him. Then she began to smile slowly. "We'll have to wait till Spot gets back."

**A/N So I'm going to do something I've never done before. You get to suggest a title for this story! And I'll pick the one I think best captures the story as a whole. So review and let me know!**


	2. Home

For another month, Spot and Jeans lived at the lodging house, much as they had done before they were married, but Spot cornered Jeans one day as she was about to wash the dishes. "We've got to talk."

Jeans calmly pushed him away and turned on the water. "Lovely. You can put the dishes away while we do it."

"How much money do you have saved up?" He asked, putting dishes away recklessly.

"Twenty dollars and ten cents."

"That's enough. I have twenty-eight. Listen, we've got to get out of here, I don't really care where it is."

"I've been thinking about that too," Jeans replied unexpectedly, "I think I've found a house we could afford. But Spot," she put her hand on his arm, "what about the newsies?"

"I've thought about that. As long as it's not too far away it'll be fine."

"Yes, it's very close, halfway between here and church. I - Spot!"

For he had grabbed her and was waltzing her around the kitchen, kissing her every third step, "Eva Conlon, I love you!"

* * *

I had not intended to post this so soon, but I figured, since the last chapter wasn't really _about_ Spot and Jeans, I owed you one that was about them. Thanks to **LucyofNarnia** and **Izabeal Finley** for reviewing last chapter! Please continue to give me your ideas for a title name.


	3. Reassurance

In their small kitchen, Spot and Jeans were having a cup tea after work. The conversation was minimal, the newlyweds preferring to look at eachother and smile idiotically for no apparent reason, but Jeans remarked casually, "I ran into Bullseye today."

Spot slammed his mug down. "The sneak! What did he want?"

Jeans looked mildly puzzled. "Nothing. I ran into him. We fell down, he saw who it was, turned white and began stammering apologies, looking over my shoulder the whole time. Doubtless he was praying no furious Spot Conlon would turn up and knock his non-existant brains out."

Spot smirked and picked up his cup again.

"I ran into Robert as well," Jeans continued.

"Did he knock you down too?"

"No, I didn't mean it literally this time. He's turning eight tomorrow. Wants me to come to his party."

"You going?"

"I think I will. I haven't gotten to talk to his mother for a long time."

"Well, while you're doing that, I'll run over and check on the boys. I've been getting lax lately."

"Don't be too rough?"

"I'll just reassure them a bit."

"How..._reassuring._"


	4. Talk

"Spot, you remember Crab?"

"The kid we picked up after Christmas?"

"Yes. Guess what?"

"What?"

"His parents were killed in an accident with some factory machinery."

"What about it?"

"Listen, Patrick! They took out the bodies, but the next day, before they buried them, they couldn't find his mother! So they went ahead and buried the dad, but, listen, the best part's coming. His mother was still alive!"

"Great."

"But that's not the best part either! So, Crab's mother lived with her nephew's sister's aunt for a while; she didn't remember Crab, something was wrong with her head. But then one day, she remembered!"

"Wonderful. Jeans, you-"

"Don't interrupt. And so every morning, she would wander all over, looking for her son. She asked and asked, but no one knew where he was, because he had been living in the sewers (and he did a pretty good job of it, too, until we picked him up). Well, today-"

"Um, yeah, but Jeans-"

"I _said_ don't interrupt! Today he was out selling papers, like usual, and she heard his voice! And just ran to him, 'cause of course she recognized it. Isn't that wonderful!"

"Stunning. Jeans?"

"Yes?"

"Did you know you just burned the sausages?"


	5. Follow

A dark shadow detached itself from the alley wall and silently slipped after a slight figure that was carrying a cane.

Dodging back into the mirk of the alley whenever the figure turned it's head, the two made their way to the end of the alley.

There the slight figure in the lead hesitated, tapping the cane on the ground, then turned left. A beam of light glanced onto his face, and revealed the figure as Spot Conlon.

The shadow following him waited until he was ten or so feet ahead, then slipped out of the alley and, hugging the wall, moved cautiously and quietly after him.

The two continued this way for two blocks, then went back into an alley. Halfway through it, Conlon disappeared.

The second figure hesitated, then started carefully towards the place he had been last, peering around anxiously.

Suddenly, strong arms reached out and a hand clamped over the shadow's mouth. There was a stifled squeak and then the figure went limp.

The hands shifted to her arms and she whispered, "I sue for peace!"

Spot chuckled as he helped her up. "That was pretty good."

"Really?"

"Yep. But you should have gotten to the wall as soon as you lost me."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. It's just uncanny how you disappear from right in front of me. I don't mind it when I'm practicing, but you better not do it any other time." Jeans mock-frowned at him.

"Don't worry." He dropped a quick kiss on the down-turned lips. "I wouldn't want to."

"Good boy." she grinned up at him and whispered, "I wouldn't want to either, even if I ever get as good as you are."

"Practice, practice."

"Ugh."

* * *

Thanks to **Christiana Conlon, Izabeal Finley, Lucy of Narnia **and **Austra **for reviewing!


	6. Morning

The morning began with the sun shining, the birds singing, and Jeans getting awakened by a wet cloth rubbed over her face.

She sat up groggily and glared at Spot. He grinned cheerfully back. "Rise and shine!"

His wife rolled over and pulled the blankets over her head. "No. Too early."

In reply, her ever loving husband ripped the blankets off.

Jeans sat up. "Fine. I'm awake, you happy?" she grumbled, disappearing into the washroom.

Spot looked after her with raised eyebrows; though usually reluctant to wake up in the mornings, Jeans wasn't normally testy.

Jeans came out of the washroom, dressed in her normal outfit of loose pants and flannel shirt, and plopped down on the bed. Listlessly she began brushing out her hair. She ran into a tangle at the back of her neck, and after struggling with it for a minute, threw the brush down with a impatient huff.

Spot slid onto the bed behind her and picked up the brush, then with gentle hands began brushing her hair.

Jeans went very still. "Thanks." She hesitated a moment, then said, "I'm sorry about being grouchy. Forgive?"

"So'kay. Love you." He gave her a quick kiss, before skillfully braiding her hair into it's customary thick, single braid down the back.

Jeans turned and gave him a kiss back. "Love you too." She ran her fingers quickly through his hair, patting it into place.

"You know," he said, as she stood and began looked about for her hat, "Someday I'd like to see you sell with your hair down."

She turned and _looked_ at him. He cleared his throat. "Of course, it's your decision _entirely_."

**Thank you to Lucy of Narnia, Izabeal Finley, Saya, Bekah, Cybale, The Pen, and Me for reviewing! You guys give me warm fuzzies.**


	7. Arguement

A/N: This is a continuation of last chapter. Sort of.

* * *

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No! And that's _it_. Final. Subject closed." Jeans turned away and firmly began braiding her hair, ignoring him.

But ignoring Spot Conlon is never a wise thing to do. An arm slipped around her waist and he whispered insidiously, "Jeans..."

She pressed her lips together. "No."

"Jeans..." His breath ghosted across her neck and she shuddered involuntarily.

"I...said no." She repeated, not quite as firmly.

"Jeans..." his hand stole up and teased the hair out from between her fingers.

Jeans gave in. "All right!" She let him undo the just-begun braid. "But you're going to owe me for this."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll find _some_ way to repay you." Spot said, kissing the tip of her nose.

Jeans cleared her throat. "I'm sure. Come on, the papers await us."

And as they went out the door, Jeans' hair -_un_braided- caught the sunlight and it turned, for a moment, to a liquid river of gold.

* * *

Thanks to **LucyofNarnia, Austra, Saya, ThePen, Eruanna Undomiel, Bekah, **and** Izabeal Finley **for reviewing. Your encouragement is what keeps me posting!


	8. Winter

A snowball slammed into Jeans' back. "Got ya!" a laughing voice called.

Now, ordinarily Jeans liked to think of herself as a pacifist, but such a challenge as this could not go unanswered. She carefully placed her papes on a bench and made a good, firm snowball.

The dark head bobbed up from behind the fountain and Jeans let fly. "Got you, Robert!" She crowed triumphantly.

His reply was another snowball, which she managed to duck, before throwing another at him.

Unfortunately, a passerby came walking right into her line of fire and the passerby (a very grand lady indeed, who looked as if she habitually went around saying to herself "papa, potatoes, prunes and prisms" ) called a policeman. "Officer, arrest that young lady!" the grand lady demanded grandly.

The policeman looked at Jeans and then back at the fuming lady. "On what charge, ma'am?"

"Why, she -ah, well- she threw a snowball at me!"

The officer's lips twitched, and he said soothingly, "A dreadful thing indeed, marm. You just go on and let me take care of her."

With a final "Humph!" The lady swept on the and policeman turned to Jeans, who instantly tried to look downcast and repentant...and failed miserably.

The policeman's lips twitched again, but he said sternly, "Now, young woman, what have you got to say for yourself?"

Jeans noted the twinkle in his eye and offered audaciously, "Sorry?"

He laughed. "Cheeky kid. Run along, and try not to hit any more ladies."

"Yes sir!" Jeans saluted. "Oh, and officer?"

He turned- and got a snowball in the face. "You didn't say anything about men!" Jeans sang out, darting behind the fountain.

The policeman stooped and made a fast, hard snowball. He flung it at Jeans and then ducked quickly as she sent one in return. The bull blew his whistle hastily, then scooped up another wad of snow.

Another policeman came running up. "Trouble, Dick?"

"Help me out here." The first bull "Dick" said in reply, thrusting a sloppy snowball into his arms. The second officer stared at it for a second, startled, then grinned and threw it at Robert, who unwisely stuck his head out at the wrong moment.

Jeans pulled him back behind the fountain and said hastily, "Bobby, go get Spot, tell him I could use some help."

The boy took off and Jeans quickly began stockpiling snowballs.

The two bulls were competing with each other to see who could make the hardest packed snowballs; they were stockpiling too.

Spot came dashing into sight with Robert at his heels, and Jeans motioned them behind the fountain with her.

"What's up?" the Brooklyn leader asked, looking worried.

"I threw a snowball at a policeman and now we're having a snowball fight.'

Spot shook his head. "Only you. Don't you know you can be arrested for that?"

"He had a sense of humor!" Jeans protested, throwing a snowball at the taller policeman.

"No, not like that. Here, let me show you." Spot took a snowball from her hand and hurled it at one of the bulls. It hit the bigger policeman in the rear as he was bending down for more snow.

The two newsies (and Robert) looked at each other anxiously, but the policeman, fortunately, did have a sense of humor.

He laughed and said to the other bull, "Hey, Dick, we'd better call in reinforcements, these kids have a mean arm."

"Well, if they can all in reinforcements, so can I." And Spot put two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply; the signal for any newsies within hearing to drop whatever they were doing and come running.

Six or seven newsies came racing from different directions. "What's up, Spot?" Pirate asked, hand hovering near his slingshot.

"You won't need that. Pirate, Fox, you throw. Whistler, Robert, Snatch, help Jeans make snowballs. The targets are the fuzz (policeman)."

The newsies sent up a cheer and set to work hurling a barrage of snowballs at the policemen, who meanwhile had called in reinforcements of their own.

Various little children ''taking a walk'' joined in the fun, to the distress of their nurses, so it was the kids against the grownups.

One girl, around fifteen, broke away from her escort (a pale, pasty looking youth), scooped up a snowball and got a policeman square on the chin.

Pirate bowed to her. "Nice shot, miss!"

She swept him a grand curtsy, and said in a lilting Irish accent, "Thank you, good sir! Oh, I say, well done!" As Pirate fitted a marble sized ball of snow into his slingshot and fired.

He bowed again and offered his slingshot. "Care to try, miss?"

"I should love to! Are you quite sure?"

"Positive, miss."

"The name's Eileen, _not_ 'miss'."

"Beg pardon, miss Eileen."

"Ugh!" The girl shuddered expressively. "Don't call me that! You make me look around for Hubert, and I would much rather not be reminded of him."

She put some hard pellets of snow into the slingshot and fired it at one of the bulls, then, smirking, fired one at her escort.

He jumped and looked disapprovingly at her.

Eileen sighed and handed Pirate back his slingshot. "Thank you, I suppose I'd better get back now. I'll be in for a rare scolding when I get home." She tossed him an impish grin. "But it was worth it. I'll see you later, perhaps?"

"Yes, mi- Eileen."

She waved as she walked away, and Pirate turned back to the fight to find Spot smirking at him. "Got yourself a girl, huh Pirate?"

"C'mon, Spot, she's got class. I ain't."

"Stranger things have happened. I still married Jeans, didn't I?"

"You most certainly did," Jeans interjected, dropping a kiss on her husband's flannel shirt-and-suspender-clad shoulder.

He whirled around, "Jeans! I've told you before, don't do that when I'm working on something!"

"All right, I'll stop...if you can catch me." And she raced away laughing, with Spot in hot pursuit.

He caught up with her in short order and tossed her into a snowbank; in return she grabbed up a handful of snow and tucked it down his shirt.

Spot returned the favor with a lump of snow for her hair. Then Jeans took it upon herself to pay peace-maker with a kiss for a consoler.

Pirate rolled his eyes and went back to the battle. The newsies were gaining ground, though Pirate had to admit some of the policemen had a mean arm. He rubbed his shoulder where he'd gotten hit earlier.

Then another policeman came rushing in, blowing his whistle loudly. He did _not _look like he had a sense of humor.

Knowing trouble when he saw it, Spot motioned for his newsies to leave, and he and Jeans sat down on a bench together and looked like any other young couple out for a pleasure walk in the middle of winter (with no coats on, naturally).

"Officers! What is going on here?" The Officious Officer demanded.

"We were having a snowball fight, sir."

"A _snowball fight_? Gentlemen, you are officers of the law, not schoolchildren!"

"And you ain't our schoolmaster." One of the men muttered. There were low snickers throughout the group.

"Silence!" The Officious Officer glared. "You will all come with me. The chief will hear about this."

Jeans hurriedly slipped off the bench and went over to the first policeman. She whispered, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

He winked at her. "Don't worry, the Chief's an easygoing man. He's had some snowball fights in his time. Go on back to your sweetheart now, and tell those kids they can really throw."

"Thank you, sir."

"So what did he say?" Spot demanded as she sat down beside him again.

"He said to tell everyone they throw well; he doesn't think they'll get in very much trouble; and for me to go back to my sweetheart."

Spot murmured, "I like that guy, for all he's a bull." His voice sent little chills up and down Jeans' back.

Regardless of passerby, he bent and kissed her (as promised, breathless).

* * *

Thank you to **LucyofNarnia, Austra, Izabeal Finley, Bekah, cybale **and **Christina Conlon** for reviewing so faithfully! It truly makes my day...


	9. Stranger

*Cringes from angry readers* Sorry, sorry! I know it's been a ridiculously long time since I've updated, but I've been insanely busy. Two plays (in one and watched one), family reunion, friend coming from out of town, birthday, and much more...not to mention trying to have a consistent time with God. But, He was faithful, and here I am, more mature and with a new numeral since last I updated. Enjoy!

* * *

John "Lucky" Adams was in Brooklyn. Normally he stayed out of Brooklyn, (not feeling he could push his luck _that_ far) and most definitely out of Spot Conlon's way, but today he had ventured out of Haarlem because he had heard rumors.

Rumors that Brooklyn's king had gotten married. (Highly unlikely; Spot Conlon was notorious for being disinterested in girls.)

And that he had married some girl that was almost as dangerous as he was. (Likely, if he'd gotten married at all.)

So, Lucky had braved Brooklyn and the possibility that he might meet Conlon or his (if there was one) wife to see if the rumors were true. He knew one of Brooklyn's newsies relatively well, so he figured he could get in, get out, and get it over with. Maybe.

The logical place to start would be the lodging house; since even if Pirate wasn't there, no one else was likely to be there either, so he could wait unobserved until Pirate came.

Lucky knocked at the door of the lodging house, and then started when a bright female voice called "Come in!"

Of course the owner of the place would be there. Lucky opened the door and walked in. He glanced around for the speaker, but there was no one behind the desk or in the main room.

Then a girl came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. "You'll excuse me if don't shake your hand," she said with a friendly smile, "but I've rolls in the oven I need to get right back to."

"Oh, um," Lucky tried to pull his wits together. This was not the old crone he'd expected would be in charge of the lodging house. This girl was young and highly attractive. And, by the exquisite smell wafting from the kitchen, an amazing cook. "Uh, that's all right." He gathered himself together and said, "Can I wait here for Pirate?"

"Certainly. Excuse me, I think the rolls are –" she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Lucky dropped into a seat. The smell of baking bread wafted into the room and he was reminded of the baker. Accustomed to classifying people according to whether or not he could beat them up; he had thought at first she would be easy game. Slight, not tall or brawny like most of the bargirls he knew. But thinking again...she'd moved with a kind of assurance, and even though he'd never seen her before in his life, she'd greeted him with the confidence of a life-long friend.

"Here." Lucky looked up quickly to see the girl in front of him, tossing something from hand to hand. She lobbed it to him and he caught it instinctively, and then almost dropped it as the heat registered.

"I thought you might like a roll while you're waiting." She explained. "It was my grandmother's recipe, " she added as he bit into it.

It was delicious. Light, airy and rich, with just a hint of sweetness. Nearly melting on your tongue. In all his fifteen years, Lucky had never had a roll this good.

"Like it?" the girl asked with another bright smile.

Lucky nodded, his mouth full. Slowly he ate the rest of the bread. "So," he said cautiously, swallowing the last of the roll, "I heard Spot Conlon got married."

The girl nodded. "He did."

"I heard she's some kind of wizard with knives."

"Oh?" the girl looked very amused about something.

"So, you know her?"

"Slightly." The girl chuckled. "I'm his wife."

Lucky stared at the not at all intimidating girl in front of him for a minute before it dawned on him that of course, she must be joking. He snorted. "Don't make me laugh."

"Why not?"

"Huh?"

"Laughing is very good for you. Healthy, you know."

"But – but-" Lucky changed tactics. "I could beat – I mean, you don't look at all –"

"-Dangerous?" The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. She spit in her hand and held it out to him. "Jeans Conlon."

Too dazed to do anything else, Lucky shook it. _Spot Conlon's_ wife made – rolls. Good ones. "I…I'm Lucky."

"Good to meet you." Jeans smiled at him, then her smiled widened and got somehow much more intimate. "Hey, Spot."

Lucky jumped and whirled around. The leader of Brooklyn was standing behind him; though how long he'd been there Lucky had no idea- he hadn't heard a thing.

Spot glanced at Lucky, who froze. Then the glance dipped as Spot dismissed him with a brief nod.

Lucky almost went limp with relief. (Despite the fact he was nearly twice as tall as Spot, he'd heard enough horror stories to be glad at the reprieve.)

"How was selling?" Jeans asked, moving past Lucky with an absentminded smile and reaching up for a hug and kiss.

"Pretty good," Spot answered, returned the favors. He sniffed. "Hey, Jeans, what's that?"

She slipped from his arms. "Oh, just some rolls I made." Jeans winked slyly at Lucky and began to walk towards the kitchen.

Lucky stared after her, wondering why she'd winked - like they had a shared secret or something - at him.

"Jeans . . ." A dangerous sounding voice came from behind Lucky, and he jumped out of the way hurriedly. He stared as the most feared and respected newsie in all New York threatened his wife with horrific punishment if she didn't give him a roll _at once_, while said wife dodged around the kitchen laughing hysterically.

The Haarlem newsie blinked a couple times, then hastily slipped out before they remembered him.

Brooklyn, he decided, was dangerous in more ways than one. Lunacy might be catching.

* * *

Thank you to **cybale, LucyofNarnia, Austra, Bekah, Izabeal Finley, Christina Conlon **and welcome to **Autumn's Rain**! You guys are the best! Don't forget to review - if you forgive me for the abominable lack of updates...


	10. Tears

Spot came in the door, tossed his hat, slingshot and cane on the table and called, "Jeans!"

No answer. And no food on the stove or table. Worrisome.

A frown crossed his face. "Jeans?" he called, more urgently.

"I'm here." A wavering voice said.

Spot crossed the room and pulled open their bedroom door.

Jeans was lying face down on the bed. She pushed herself up and gave a weak smile. "Hi. I'm sorry, I didn't get dinner, and your laundry's not done, and –"

"Never mind dinner and the laundry. What's wrong?"

Jeans swallowed. "It's been two years now since my mother – my mother died." Then her face contorted – the kind of face that means you're trying very hard not to cry.

Spot hurried to her side and pulled her to him. "It's all right," he said, "go ahead and cry."

Jeans buried her face in his shoulder and let the flood of tears run.

Spot let her cry for a while, and when she sat up again he said gently, "Want to talk about it?"

"I – I'll try." Jeans sniffled again, pressing the back of her hand briefly against her mouth. "Two years ago she was fine – nothing seemed to be wrong with her. She's been so busy all her life, always serving, always working at something. If there were anything that needed to be done, she would do it rather than relax or do what she wanted. She never shirked what she had to do, no matter how nasty it was. And she loved my father so much - she respected him and submitted to him in such a Christ-like way. After he – died, she worked very hard to keep us together. She was looking forward so much to grandchildren – she would have loved to see Jane's baby. But she had that heart attack and – and now she won't ever see her grandchildren or hold them or – or anything! And I miss her!" Jeans tried, unsuccessfully, not to cry again.

Spot stroked her hair and looked at her thoughtfully. "Jeans, is your mother in heaven?"

"Ye-es." Jeans answered, twisting her head on his shoulder to look up at him.

"Then, love, why are you grieving 'as those who have no hope'? You will see your mother again, but until then, don't wish her back. She is worshiping the King." Jeans," he held her tight as he spoke gently, "I'm looking forward to meeting your mother. She sounds like an amazing woman. But even though you miss her, you can't let your grief get in the way of what God has called you to do – being a wife."

"Oh! You just want me to fix your dinner, that's all!" Jeans pulled away. "Well, fine. I'll go get you some food, and then-"

"Jeans. That's not what I meant at all. I don't care a speck about dinner, and you know it. But I've seen people get lost in sorrow before, and I don't want that to happen to you."

Jeans crumpled back against him. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. "

"I do. You've been working too hard, and now this anniversary – it's just been too much. Come on, wash your face and then let's go find some dinner."

"You're not going to steal it, are you?" Jeans asked, looking melodramatically worried.

"Nope. I'm going to demand it as part of my executive rights as the 'most famous and respected newsie in all New York – and probably everywhere else'." Trademark smirk firmly in place, Spot gave her a hand up.

"How the dickens do you remember that so exactly?" she grumbled, accepting it.

"I have an enormous ego, remember?"

"How could I forget."

* * *

Two words: Internet down. Kinda stinks, but it's good for us. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and apologies for the wait and then the sad chapter. But there's hope... And the next chapter is happy, so be on the look-out for that!


	11. The Addition of an Olive Branch'

"Dinner ready?" Spot asked, sniffing the delectable odors floating past his nose.

"Just about." Jeans flashed him a happy grin and bent to pull something out of the oven. She slid the pan onto the table and turned back to stir the pot on the stove. "Go ahead and sit down. I'll be right there." She smiled another of those dazzling smiles as he did as she said.

He watched her taste it, "tut-tut" and add another pinch of salt. She brought it and set it down on the table, sitting herself down with a small sigh of relief.

Spot smiled at her across the table. "You get prettier every day."

Jeans tossed her head. "Go on. I've been leaning over a hot stove for the past hour and the laundry tub the hours before that. Pretty? Hah."

"Well, maybe you're right."

Jeans' head jerked up and her eyes widened.

"You actually look stunning."

She blushed. "Here you are talking and dinner's getting cold. Let's pray."

"Right." Spot captured her hand and bowed his head. "Father-God, thank You for this food; thank You for JEans working hard to make it, and for giving us money to buy it. Thank You most of all for the gift of Your Son, Jesus Christ. Thank You for his giving his life as a ransom for us. Help us to honour and glorify You. In Jesus' Name we pray, Amen."

Spot fell to with the vigorous appetite of a boy that has worked long and hard. He had half his plate cleared before he realized Jeans wasn't eating. "Are you all right, love?"

She gave him a bright smile. "I'm fine, thank you." she hesitated, toying with her fork. "Which would you rather have, a boy or a girl?"

"Well, I'd love to have a boy, but a girl would be nice too, whichever, you know. I-" then he noticed Jeans' grin, which was threatening to split her face. He dropped his fork. "Wait! You - you're serious? I mean, we're really going to-"

Jeans nodded, grin (if such a thing was possible) widening.

Spot whooped. He pulled her to her feet and planted a eager kiss on her lips. "That's amazing! When is it due? When did you find out? Are you all right? Do you need anything?"

Jeans laughed. "I'm _fine_. Sit down and let me tell you all about it."

He complied, pulling her onto his lap. She played with the key around his neck as she talked. "Well, I've always wanted a whole passel of kids, so I wondered when -or if- the first one would come. For the past couple days I've been feeling a little queasy in the morning and I haven't felt like eating."

Spot glanced at her still-full plate.

"Exactly. So, I was wondering if I should tell you, but I didn't want to worry you, so I went to see Mrs. Mckensie instead. She - she said that it was all perfectly natural when you were going to have a baby." Jeans laughed. "I about jumped through the roof."

"So when is he due?"

Jeans noticed the masculine pronoun and smiled inwardly. "I think about the first week of October."

"So long?"

"It does take nine months."

"Right. So," he shifted her so she was leaning against him, her head on his shoulder, "no more selling for you."

She twisted, "What!"

"Look, I don't want anything happening to you or the baby."

"Ill be with you the whole time! There won't be any danger! And you know we'll need the money more than ever now."

"Jeans, you know I can't be with you all the time - I have to sell, and you're much too pretty to be good for my business, and I won't have all those guys crowding round you like yesterday."

"But I brought in five dollars! And I have my knives!"

"You saw the way they _looked_ at you! You're my _wife_, not some-"

"Spot."

He sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his hair. "I just don't like it."

"I know." She nestled down under his chin. "I don't either. But we need the money - and you have how many birdies watching me?"

He grinned sheepishly and she smiled against his chest.

"See. And I have my knives, so I'm really pretty safe. Plus you'll be within call all the time. So how about this: I work until I...I start to show, and then I see if Mrs. McKensie has any work I could do. Sound good?"

"I guess." he stood. "Now, Miss Eva Conlon, you'd better get back to your seat. I still have half a plate left to eat and you a whole one."

Jeans mock-frowned. "Dear me. This will never do. Food left? Sit down and let's get this taken care of right away." She pushed him back into his chair and sat down on his lap again. "There, now open your mouth -" she held a fork full of food to his lips.

"Only if you eat too," he stipulated.

"All right. Open!"

"Jeans?"

"Yeah?"

"_How_ long till the baby comes, again?"

* * *

Hullo! Sorry for not updating for such a long time. Props to anyone that catches the reference of the chapter title! Thanks to **Saya, Izabeal Finley, Austra, Bekah, Me,** and special thanks to **LucyofNarnia**, who has been asking for this chapter for a while now. :) Here it is!

Also, if any of you have any scenarios you'd especially like to see Spot and Jeans in, let me know via your review or PM me, and I'll try and work it to write them.


	12. Accosted Part I

Note: The boy in this story is _not_ Spot and Jeans kid. This is about two months after the last story. And it's in three parts, so be warned.

* * *

"Politician exposed as lawbreaker! Thousands outraged!" a newsie yelled, waving a paper. A few people glanced his way, most not sparing him that. He wiped his forehead and went at it again, "Heinous act of treachery! Confidential state secrets revealed!" A man tossed him a quarter and took a pape. "Keep the change, kid."

"Thanks, mister!" The boy left off shouting to gaze at the coin, then looked up as a voice said, "Hey, twerp, how you doing?" a taller newsie had sauntered over and was looking at the stack of unsold papers with a gleam in his eye.

"Made two bits!" the boy said proudly.

"Oh, that's great. One whole quarter! Say, kid, how's about I help you out?" Without waiting for an answer he snatched the stack of papes and ran off into the crowd until he was out of sight.

The boy stared after him for a second, and then took off in the opposite direction.

A lovely girl with long blonde hair pulled back into a braid was selling newspapers to a flock of college boys, while a gaggle of girls bought from a dirty-blond haired, very handsome boy across the way.

The little boy ran straight to the girl, calling "Jeans, Jeans!" as he ran. He reached her and threw his arms around her waist.

She stumbled back a step and put a hand to her lower back, then quickly recovered and put an arm around the boy. "What's wrong, Robert? Are you hurt?" she threw a swift smile to the men around her in apology.

"A big boy took my papes!" he said indignantly.

"Oh?" Jeans looked faintly surprised. "What are you going to do about it?"

Robert stared at her, trying to comprehend this wholly unexpected reaction. "You – can't you help me get them back?"

Jeans bent down to look him fully in the face. "Bobby, when most of the newsies get their papes stolen, they don't have anyone to go to for help. They don't have money to buy more, so they sleep on the streets, maybe, or maybe try and get money other ways, or steal food. Now." She straightened. "Since you _do _have friends, describe this 'big boy' as well as you can and we'll see about it."

The boy brightened and described the boy – it was rather unhelpful, as eight-year-old's descriptions are wont to be, but Jeans patiently got out of him all she could and then handed him her papers. "You stay here, Bobby, and finish selling these while I go do something." With this ambiguous leave-taking, she smiled sweetly at the young men and they parted as the Red Sea to let her through, closing back around Robert.

Jeans walked toward Spot carelessly and joined the crowd of young ladies surrounding him. He had sold all his papes (naturally) and was leaning against the wall behind him telling an outrageous tale full of his own skill and daring in the face of certain death. All the girls were 'oohing' and 'aahing' and forming a most appreciative audience.

Spot was coming to the climax of his story – "…and there I was, surrounded by those bums from the Bowery, when suddenly-" He stopped. "And you'll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happened next, ladies."

They protested, but he merely smiled (several girls almost fainted) and tilted his hat over his eyes.

Jeans waited until they were around the corner before she spoke. "Oh, your Majesty! Shall I fall at your feet? I can't wait another minute to know by what daring feats you conquered those ruffians! Oh, sire! I beg you, do –" his eyes did not open, but his hand shot out and clamped over her wrist. "Jeans," he said lazily, "I could have had any one of those girls."

Jeans stiffened, and she felt his thumb run gently over her pulse. "But I didn't want any of them. I wanted you. I still want you, not them."

"Oh, whatever you say, Your Majesty. Your word is law."

"Is it?" a hint of a smile curled his lips. "How nice."

Jeans twisted her wrist out of his grasp, using a move he had taught her. His eyes came open and he lunged. He grabbed both her wrists and with a duck and a twist had her pinned against him. She struggled for the briefest of seconds before accepting the inevitable and relaxing against him. "Shaharizad."

"Excuse me?" The eyes opened again; the barest slit.

"She was a famous queen who kept herself and most of the female population alive by telling stories. She would tell them to the king every night, and instead of executing her in the morning, as he had sworn to do with every new bride – and he would take a new one every morning – he would keep her alive, because she would leave off at the most exciting part and he wanted to hear the rest."

"Mmm." His face was buried in her hair. "Clever."

"Very." There was a pause. "Say."

"What?"

"Have you seen a boy –"

"Probably."

"Stop interrupting. Have you seen a boy who's tall, dark brown hair, thickset and prone to stealing papes?"

"Oh, you mean Rock."

Jeans glanced up in surprise. "You know him?"

The lazy grin was back. "He never buys papes. Always steals 'em from other newsies."

"Why don't you do something about it?" Jeans demanded indignantly.

The eyes half opened. "Why? He's Haarlem."

"He just took Robert's papes."

Now the eyes were fully open. "The sneak. I told him to stay out of Brooklyn." Spot lifted his head and whistled a curious sequence of notes. A sharp one came back in response. Spot dropped a quick kiss on Jeans' forehead before releasing her. "See you later."

"Where are you going?"

"To get Robert's papes back. And Jeans-" he looked grim. "Stay on well lit roads, please."

Jeans grinned cheerfully and patted her knives. "Yes, Master."

He rolled his eyes and swung off.


	13. Accosted Part II

Jeans watched Spot go, then turned back to see how Robert was doing. She grinned as she caught sight of him. The students had all left and Bobby was happily counting his money. She crossed the street and touched his hair. "How'd you do?"

He looked up, beaming. "Got three bucks!"

"Great, Bobby!"

He hesitated, looking down at the money in his hand. "Jeans," he said slowly, "they were your papes. It's your money, really." He placed it (a little regretfully) in her hand.

Jeans looked down at it. "Robert, that's incredible that you would offer it to me. But you take it. Go on, you'd better get home. Your mother will be looking for you; she'll want to know how your first day went."

He flashed her a grin and ran off.

Jeans looked after him with a smile and a sigh. She put a hand to her stomach. Still flat, but beginning to be hard and firm. She turned to make her way home then hesitated. It had been a while since she'd talked to Dash or Vade. She would go to the lodging house.

So she took the familiar route down past the dock – wrinkling her nose slightly as the distinctive and all pervasive odor of fish wafted past her nose. She disliked fish. Spot jokingly said he never trusted her to pick out a fresh fish because all fish smelled rotten to her. But the worst smelling quays were soon passed and the air became fresher and smelt like the sea.

Jeans breathed in deeply – that was one thing she did enjoy about the Brooklyn waterfront. The smell of the sea. Spot always laughed at her when she did this – stood with her eyes closed, just breathing – but she always did it anyway. The wild, briny smell always made her feel so _alive_, just as if – but her thoughts were rudely interrupted by an unfamiliar arm moving around her waist and a voice saying, "Well, well, doll, what have we here? The little newsgirl without any papes, but with a _very_ attractive face."

Jeans recognized him – he was one of the young college men that regularly bought papes from her. He was also the young man Spot had been referring to when he had said that they were looking at her like she was a – "Give me a kiss, sweetheart?"

Jeans stepped away, giving him a cold glare, but not touching her knives yet. "Sir, you are too bold."

"Aw, come on," he moved towards her and grabbed her wrist. "Loosen up. I think you're the prettiest girl I ever saw."

"And how many girls have you said that to?" Jeans queried, wrenching her wrist neatly out of his grasp.

"A few," he said, unashamed. "Come on, sweetheart, don't you want to see life a little bit?" he grabbed once more for her waist and tried to snatch a kiss.

To his bewilderment and great discomfort, he found himself against the wall with a knife pointed at his throat and a woman with hard, cold blue eyes looking at him sternly from behind it. "One, I am not your doll, sweetheart or girl and you would do well to remember it. Two, accosting young girls is most decidedly _not _done. For shame! Have you no mother? And as for your suggestion that I "see life" – are you not aware that "seeing life" most often results in seeing death?"

He was staring at the blade, which she had used, pointing and jabbing, for emphasis. "You – you won't hurt me?" All his bravado was gone.

Jeans put her head to one side, considering. "No, not yet." he sagged in relief. "But my husband might."

His head jerked up, eyes wide with reawakened fear.

"You may have heard of him. Spot Conlon."

He let out an undignified yelp and scrambled off in the opposite direction as fast as he could.

Jeans sheathed her knife and whistled a high, then a low, note. A figure dropped from the roof and stood before Jeans, looking a bit sheepish. "Sorry, Jeans. But what was I s'posed to do?"

"Maybe not stand around with your teeth in your mouth and your bare face hanging down."

Oriole stared at her, mouth ajar. Jeans grinned and cuffed his shoulder affectionately. "Don't worry about it. I was all right."

"Spot wouldn't a'thought so." The boy mumbled.

"Well, you can just leave him to –" A shrill whistle cut her off. Jeans, who had not yet learned all the signals the birds used, looked at Oriole. To her alarm his face was very white. "What? What's wrong?"

He grabbed her hand and started pulling her along.

"What!"

He half turned to look at her. "Jeans, you believe in prayer?"

"Yes, why?"

"Then start praying. Spot's hurt bad."

* * *

I know, I know. Short chapter and then a cliffhanger. But it does have a third part. Maybe a fourth, I'm not sure yet. I hope to update soon. Thanks to all of you who reviewed; you guys are the bomb-digity! God be with you,

Eavis


	14. Accosted Part III

Jeans' mind went numb. Spot, hurt? Impossible. He never got hurt. Never got sick. No – the message had gotten mixed up. It was someone else, or he was pulling a prank -Something, anything!

They rounded a corner, crossed the town square, ran hell-for-leather towards the far end of Brooklyn, Oriel leading, guided by whistled signals from rooftops and crannies of corners. In front of a bakery was a crowd of people.

Jeans pushed savagely through the crowd and dropped to her knees by the side of the still figure on the ground. It was Spot. His head and face were covered with blood, and what could be seen of his face was still and white.

Jeans, her own face nearly as white as his, turned her gaze on those grouping round. "What happened?" she asked hoarsely.

Cat, the soft-spoken leader of the birds spoke up, her dark eyes steady. "Spot was coming down the street – he was looking for someone – when he tripped over a thin cord stretched across the street. He would have recovered himself, but at the same time that fell on his head." She gestured at a beam lying half on the sidewalk.

Jeans carefully lifted Spot's head into her lap. Gently she swept his hair back and looked at the gash. A small breath of relief escaped her. "Praise God, it's not as bad as it looks." She looked up, scanning the group. "Who knows a good doctor?"

A small, underfed boy piped up, "I do, miss. My mam – she's sick a lot and Dr. Hawkins looks after her."

"Can you get him?"

"Yes, miss." He took off like a shot.

"The rest of you, clear out." Jeans looked down at the still face in her lap, murmuring comforting words and sweet nothings.

The crowd, which had turned at her order, crowded eagerly back around as a short, dynamic figure came rushing to Spot's side. She stared down at her brother, her face going very cold. "Who did this?" she turned a furious glare at the people standing around and they hurriedly melted away.

"Dash." Jeans said quietly. "I don't know who did it, but please think about that later. Right now –"

The bakery door opened and a short, fat man in a white cap and apron came out.

"What are you doing here? You're scaring away customers! Shoo!" he flapped his apron at them.

Dash straightened; her eyes had a dangerous look in them. "You little –"

"Wait. Let me." Looking up from where Spot's head was lying limp in her lap Jeans said pleasantly "Sir, something has happened. Do you see this young man?"

The baker glanced down, and Jeans went on, less pleasantly. "He is my husband. He is also gravely hurt. We are waiting for the doctor. When it is safe, we will move him. Until them I'm afraid you'll just have to wait – unless you want to talk to my friend about it?"

The baker glanced at Dash, who was staring at him with burning eyes, and quavered visibly. "No, no, it's quite all right. Please – stay as long as you want."

As he retreated into his shop, the boy came running back, a stoop-shouldered, grey-haired man in tow. "Here he is, miss!" The boy panted triumphantly.

Jeans smiled at him gratefully. "Thank you."

The doctor knelt by Spot and gently felt around the wound. He took his pulse and checked for any other injuries. He looked at Jeans. "The head is not as bad as it looks, my dear. Head wounds always bleed a lot."

"Sir – should he still – shouldn't he be waking up by now?"

"How long has he been unconscious?"

"About twenty minutes."

"He might have a minor concussion. Nothing too serious, I should think." He pulled out of his bag some cloth, then hesitated and looked at the wound again, parting the hair carefully. Then he looked at Jeans. "You are his wife?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to do something that might seem a bit odd, but we do it whenever the hair is long enough." Seeing Jeans looked puzzled, he smiled reassuringly at her. "Don't worry, you'll see. Could you please hold his shoulders? He's beginning to wake up and I don't want him to move."

Jeans nodded, taking a firm grip on the shoulders that were indeed beginning to twitch.

The doctor carefully took the hair on both sides of the wound and tied them together over it, the secured it with a strip of surgical tape. "Please make sure he leaves that alone for at least two weeks; three would be best. Can you do that?"

Jeans made a face. "I'll try. I don't know how much he'll listen to me."

The doctor looked at Jeans as though seeing her for the first time and a slow, tired smile spread across his face. "I think you'll find some means to persuade him."

Jeans blushed and looked down. Then her face lit up. "He's coming around."

Spot stirred, his hand moving to his head. Jeans caught it halfway. "No, dearest, you mustn't touch."

Smoky grey-blue eyes snapped open, and Spot looked sharply from Jeans to the doctor to Dash and back to Jeans. "Where am I? Who's that? Why am I on the ground? And why does my head hurt like the very dickens?"

Jeans smiled and cupped his face in her hand. "I'll tell you in a minute, love, but right now I need to know – can you stand?"

"Of course I can." He pushed himself up to a sitting position, then moaned and slumped back against Jeans. "My legs feel like those slimy wet noodles Dash likes so much. You'll have to help me."

Jeans slipped an arm around his waist and Dash took his hand. Between them they hauled him to his feet, where he stood swaying unsteadily. Dash surveyed him with a critical eye. "I think if you put your arm around Jeans' shoulder and leaned on her that way it wouldn't look so bad."

"Right." Spot said from between gritted teeth. "Anything so long as I can get out of this blasted sun and get an explanation. Hand me my cap."

As Dash did so Jeans turned to the doctor. "Thank you very much, sir. What do we owe you?"

"Two dollars and eighty-five cents."

Jeans reached into her pocket, but Dash stopped her. "No, let me." Jeans was about to protest, but Dash overrode her, "you'll need every cent, what with –" she nodded significantly to Jeans' midsection.

Jeans gave in. "Thank you."

"I'll come with you. Spot; link your arm through mine. That's the way. Now, off we go."

As they made their way through the streets to Spot and Jeans' rooms, They saw some disapproving looks and heard someone say, - "That Spot Conlon. Always one with the ladies." And another – "Look – even got one on each arm."

Spot grinned despite his pain and muttered to Jeans, "I don't know where they get these ideas."

Jeans rolled her eyes. "Right, because earlier today you weren't surrounded by giggling, cooing girls and enjoying it – no, not at all!"

From Spot's other side Dash chuckled. "She has a point. Jeans, have you told him about what _else _happened earlier?"

Jeans looked uncomfortable. "No, not yet."

"Well?"

"Well, um, I was on my way to the lodging house when a young man started making some…ah…unwelcome advances. So I just…convinced him they were unwanted and he left."

"What Jeans means is," Dash said with evil glee, "a hoity-toity college dude tried to kiss her and she held a knife to his throat and told him who she was. He hightailed it out of there."

Spot looked at Jeans, whose face was very red. "That right?" without looking up, Jeans nodded. There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Spot began laughing.

Dash and Jeans looked at one another in astonishment. "Are you all right?" Jeans asked cautiously.

He straightened, still chuckling. "What I wouldn't have given to have been here. That'll teach him not every girl thinks he's irresistible. Jeans –" he looked her in the eyes. "I'm glad you can defend yourself. And in the future we'll both try harder to discourage…ah.._unwelcome advances_. Deal?"

"Deal." They shook hands solemnly, and Spot chuckled again. Then stopped abruptly as a grimace of pain crossed his face. "I never got to Rock." He remembered. "Dash, would you –"

"I'll take care of it," his sister assured him.

"Thanks. I think –" he drew in a breath. "I can stand now."

Jeans cast him a worried look. "Are you sure?"

"Don't worry." He gave her a half-grin. "I'll just collapse back on you if I can't."

"All right." Jeans conceded, and she and Dash moved so he was standing, albeit a bit shakily, by himself. Dash turned to go, but Jeans called her back and whispered something. Dash glanced at her brother, nodded, and swung off in a very determined manner.

Spot looked after her, and then turned to Jeans, looking suspicious. "What was that about? And what happened anyway?"

"I will tell you about it – after you're safely in bed. And don't touch that, either!"

He paused, his hand halfway to his head, and looked at her with a devilish smirk on his face. "You'll have to persuade me."

* * *

And there you have it. That is the end, by the way, for this 'story'. The next oneshot won't really be connected to this. Thank you all for the reviews, and welcome to **Firefly Conlon**!

**Me: **Very good! Yes, Robert's a newsie now. :) Jeans is pretty much his hero(ine) so since _she's_ a newsie, _he _wants to be a newsie too. And Jeans hurried. :) Thanks for reviewing!


	15. Singing

This note has nothing to do with this story or newsies, but GO SEE THE VOYAGE OF THE DAWN TREADER! Even if you haven't read the book go see it, and then read all the books. They are awesome.

* * *

"Are you nearly ready?" Spot called, "I did want to be there before it's over!" He glanced at the door and an impish look came into his eyes. "On second thought, I'll just come check on you myself."

There was a 'huffing' noise and the bedroom door opened. Jeans came out, her hair only half pinned up and a frustrated look on her face. "I'm ready, but my hair decided to be refractory."

Spot raised an eyebrow and tried to conceal a grin She looked gorgeous when she was upset, but he knew she would be angry if he said so. Besides, the angrier she got the bigger vocabulary she used. "And that means…?"

"Annoying, troublesome and stubborn." She sat down on one of the kitchen chairs with another huff.

He moved behind her and began to take the pins out. "And you didn't ask me to help because…?"

"Because I'm annoying, troublesome and stubborn." She looked up at him gratefully. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." His fingers moved sinuously through her hair, and she sat enjoying it with her eyes closed.

Spot held the hair so it spilled over his hand and marveled at the way the sun turned it to living gold. Then he gathered it together and the familiar twist-pull of braiding began.

Jeans opened her eyes and half-turned. "Not that I don't like it when you braid it, husband mine, but I had planned on something a little more formal."

"Tut tut. Patience," he said in a chiding tone, "is a virtue. I'm not finished yet."

She meekly turned back around. "Yes, Master."

"Good girl." He coiled the braid around her head and held out a hand. "Pin." He stuck it in and said again, "Pin."

Surveying it critically, he added three more and nodded. "There you are."

She shook her head back and forth experimentally. "You think it will stay?"

"It will until I take it out tonight."

He sensed her rolling her eyes and he grinned. "But I'll add a couple more to be sure."

"Thank you." She stood up and turned to face him, tilting her head a little. "Will I do?"

He looked at her silently as she stood there, the sun's last rays catching in the braided crown. Then, careful not to muss his work, he took her face between his hands and kissed her. "Now, we really do need to go."

She pulled a face. "It's just a show. I don't know why you're so anxious to be there on time."

"Uh huh. Unfortunately, we have to be there early. I gotta talk to Buck."

Jeans' gaze sharpened. "Is that the same Buck that –"

"Yes." Spot's tone was grim and his face closed. "He's leader of Queens now. Kicked Skinner out."

"What happened to the rest of the gang?" Jeans asked, glancing around as if to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything.

"It broke up after Crusher got saved." He glanced at her as she stopped short in surprise. "You didn't know?"

"_I_ don't have spies everywhere." She replied tartly. "No, I didn't know."

He grinned. "He actually found me last week and told me. He wants to see you to thank you. I told him maybe." Spot watched Jeans as she silently struggled with her desire to hit him. Then he added seriously, "I should have told you earlier. I'm sorry."

Now she looked surprised. "Um – that's all right. I'm glad he got saved. Did he tell you anything about it?"

They were walking down Poplar St. now.

Looking at the position of the sun Spot felt a little bit anxious. He had more to do tonight than talk to Buck. "Huh? Oh, yeah. He wanted to tell you about it. I'll send Sparrow to tell him he can meet us at the docks."

"Where you can push him into the water if need be?" she tossed him an arch look.

"Something like that," he grinned, unabashed. "We better hurry."

She looked puzzled but sped up.

In a very few minutes they came to the vaudeville theatre – not Medda's, for which Jeans had expressed a profound dislike, but one that was managed by Jeans' sister's husband.

Spot halted outside the main entrance and said, "You go on in. I'm gonna talk to Buck and then I'll be in."

"All right, but –"

He chuckled. "You look adorable when you're confused."

"Careful!" she said warningly, "I still have my knives!"

"Lovers' quarrel, Eva?" A smooth voice asked.

Spot turned swiftly, thrusting Jeans behind him, and saw a tall, handsome young man elegantly dressed standing – no, lounging – against the doorway.

Spot heard Jeans sigh a little from behind him, and then she pushed his arm out of the way and ducked under it, letting it fall back across her shoulders.

"No, Richard. Allow me to introduce you to my husband. Spot, meet Richard Hawkins. I used to know him – before."

"Ah." Spot didn't think he'd ever seen anyone he disliked more. "Charmed."

Richard Hawkins bowed, still from his lounging position. "The privilege is mine. But you were coming in?"

"Well, I was. Spot has to talk to some one first, but –"

"Then you must allow me to escort you safely to a seat!"

Jeans looked as if she very much doubted his ability to safely escort her anywhere, but she took the arm he held out. "I'll see you in a minute." She said over her shoulder to Spot.

"Right." And she would, though in a different place than she expected. Then he heard Buck coming and stepped into the doorway. He realized with a twinge of annoyance that he was leaning in the same doorway, in the same way, as that goon had been earlier, and straightened.

He saw the burly leader coming towards him, peering a little nearsightedly into the shadows. He made a mental note of the other's bad eyes and said, relishing the lout's start of surprise at a voice coming out of the shadows, "Looking for me, Jerry?" It was always a good tactic to use your enemy's real name - threw them off balance.

"Yeah, Conlon."

Spot had to give the boy some credit – he recovered from his surprise pretty quickly. "Well?" he said coldly, "here I am."

"Listen, Conlon, I know you're mad about that business with your girl, but –"

"Wife."

"Huh?"

"She's my wife."

"Yeah. Whatever. But –"

"You listen. I ain't got much time. So listen hard, and listen good. One of your boys was in Brooklyn a coupla days ago – took some papes off one of my boys. Anything like that happens again, there'll be trouble. Big trouble. We'll stay outa Queens; you stay outa Brooklyn. Got it? Good." Spot turned slightly; as far as he was concerned the matter was closed.

"One more thing."

"What?" Spot snapped. He was going to be late, and being late made him cross.

"Soma my boys live on the othah side of Queens. They cross your turf on their way to sell. I wanna make sure they ain't gonna get roughed up."

Spot was silent for a moment. He felt a grudging twinge of respect for the other boy. Taking care of one's newsies was something he understood. "Jerry, someday you and I might attain a mutual degree of respect." Oh, wonderful, Jeans was really rubbing off on him with all those big words. "Until then, you keep your boys from _selling_ in Brooklyn, and I'll keep mine from the same in Queens. Deal?"

After a brief hesitation, Buck put out his hand. Spot spat in his own and clasped the other's hand in it.

Then with a nod Spot slipped inside, almost colliding with John, who had been hovering anxiously near the door. "Hurry up!" the man hissed, shuttling Spot down the dark hall and back stage. "You have one minute!"

"John!" Spot called softly, as the man was about to disappear, "can I add a song?"

"Sure, sure!" the man flapped a hand distractedly and raced to the curtain.

Spot drew in a deep breath and on the exhale breathed a quick plea for help (contrary to Jeans' estimation of him at the outset of their acquaintance, he asked for help quite often - at least from the One who could give it). Then he slid onto the bench and placed his hands on the keys.

Jeans' astonished face as the curtain was raised was all he had hoped for.

He played several of the pop songs – even slipping in a little ragtime – glancing at Jeans and trying very hard not to laugh out loud on the occasions he caught her eye. The half-indignant, half-proud look in them was very funny. But it was easier not to laugh when he saw the creep sitting next to her. The louse kept leaning closer to her and trying to whisper in her ear.

Each time he did this Jeans would lean away and hiss 'shhhh!' but it didn't seem to make much difference.

Finally, in the middle of "Springtime Ragtime" Jeans, without turning her head, hissed something that made the hairy-faced baboonated cad jerk back and his expression went from sleek suavity to twisted depravity, before his customary smooth one slid back in place like a mask.

The next time Spot glanced at them, Jeans was a seat away from Richard Hawkins and was listening intently to the music. Richard Hawkins – the dirty rat – was sitting very stiffly in _his_ seat and pretending to listen intently to the music.

Spot finished "Springtime Ragtime". It was actually the last song he was supposed to play, but he had permission to do one more, and he was going to - it might not be exactly the kind of thing he usually did, but it was one of Jeans' favorites, and he had to do something so she wouldn't bite his head off for not telling her about this. It was his sense of self-preservation kicking in.

So hitting the opening chords, he drew a deep breath and began to sing.

_"A Tree of Life my soul has seen_

_laden with fruit and always green..."_

Every note coming out clear and pure, he sang the first verse all through by himself, with the piano, then as the second verse began, he stopped playing and motioned to the boys hanging around in the wings to join him. Ever since that night so many nights ago now, the newsboys, at Jeans' insistance and Spot's persuasion (taking the form of a certain gold-headed cane) had formed a reasonably proficient choir. And they'd been practicing this piece in secret for a while now.

_"His beauty doth all things excel_

_by faith I know but ne'er can tell..."_

He grinned to himself as he thought of John's astonishment on discovering twenty or so ragged newsboys all lurking in the wings. Then he looked at Jeans. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears and she was smiling big enough to crack her face.

As the boys joined him on stage, Spot heard murmurs of appreciation from the audience, and by the time the boys finished the last verse, several people were standing and all were clapping.

Grinning a little sheepishly at each other - for most of them had protested this whole thing and some of them in...interesting ways - the boys bowed and filed off the stage. Spot dipped his head and left likewise.

John was waiting for him. "I said you could do another song, not another production."

Spot waited.

A smile spread across the manager's face. "But I'm not going to complain. That was more popular than the popular songs. How soon can you do it again?"

"How much will you pay?" Spot returned.

"A dollar a person for each appearance. Two for you plus the salary you have already."

"Two dollars for every boy. They'll miss the money they'd get selling during the time they're performing."

"They wouldn't miss as much as that. One twenty-five."

"One seventy-five."

"One fifty."

"Done."

Both men smiled, each pleased with the price. Spot held out his hand and John shook it firmly, then smiled and said with a nod towards the door, "Go on now. You'll be wanting to see your wife. Here." He handed Spot his pay and with a word of thanks, Spot hurried off.

Just around the corner, his newsies were all anxiously waiting for him. "Did we do good, Spot?" Whistler eagerly asked.

Spot smiled at him. "Yeah. You boys did so good that you got yourselves a job. 1.50 a person for every tie you sing."

Excited talk burst out on this declaration, but Spot wasn't paying them any more attention because Jeans was coming swiftly towards him through the dim hall. She paused on the other side of the newsies, a huge smile on her face.

Spot swept through the crowd to her and Jeans, completely heedless of the many people watching, pulled his head down and kissed him.

Spot had to own that he hadn't _exactly_ expected that reaction - fortunately he didn't have to own it out loud - but he was more than happy to reciprocate, and so he did with alacrity.

After a good deal of whistling and hooting from the watching boys Jeans pulled back. "Spot, that was absolutely beautiful. Thank you." she turned to the other newsies. "Thank you, guys."

They all shuffled their feet and muttered 'don't mention it' and 'it weren't nothin'' and similar sentiments.

Then Jeans turned back to Spot and socked him in the shoulder. "That's for not telling me about this."

Now _that_ was more like what he'd been expecting, but of course he didn't own that either. "Hey." he narrowed his eyes in the look all his enemies knew so well. "Nobody hits me and gets away with it."

While the newsies watched with a sort of horrified fascination, Spot advanced until Jeans was backed against the wall. "At least," he purred, "not without _retribution._"

As he vaguely sensed his boys tiptoeing off, Spot murmured, "Did you like that big word?"

Jeans smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Unequivocally."

* * *

So, a very long Note this time. Partly to explain several things in this chapter, and partly to apologize for not updating for...um...many months. I really truly am extremely sorry, and to make up for it I'll be posting the next chapter very soon. Just a warning though, it seems very likely that after about...oh, three more this story will be complete. I'll not mark it as such, in case the fancy takes me again to write more, but all regular updates (such as they are) will cease. Sorry. But to get back to the rest of this note.

The inspiration for Spot being able to play the piano by ear (in a scene that I decided to cut, because it was a bit laborious, the manager mentioned here, John, discovered Spot as a very small boy, playing the piano entirely by ear, and doing an excellent job. John lost track of him and only found him recently, through Jeans actually. He recognized the eyes. :)) comes from Edward Eager's 'The Well-Wishers' - specifically the character Dicky LeBaron. In fact, that character really reminds me of Spot very much, not to mention it's a great book and a great author.

The song Spot and the boys sing is one of my favourites as well - it's called 'Jesus Christ the Apple Tree' and if you look it up on youtube and watch it sung by the Choir of King's College, Cambridge, it is enough to bring tears to your eyes. It's so beautiful.

Finally, thank you guys so much for sticking with me through the lo these many months. Thanks to: **Saya, Firefly, Austra, LucyOfNarnia, and Izabeal** for reviewing! Hopefully you enjoyed this latest installment, and look out for the next one in a couple days.


	16. Illegal

The policeman, hands clasped behind his back, strolled along the walk, nodding genially to those hurrying past. All was well along his beat. No dog fights, quarrelling housewives, or – he frowned. All was well no longer, for bending over one of the very fine flowerbeds of King's Park, Brooklyn, New York, was a man. A man blatantly disregarding the posted 'no picking' sign and plucking a flower.

Scowling, the policeman crossed the street to stand behind the man and cleared his throat with an alarming grumble. This, he had found, generally warned the offender that this was Serious, and had better be Paid Attention To.

The man (He was very young, the officer noticed with disapproval) didn't seem to understand this. He had turned around, certainly, but there was no gratifying guilty start. Indeed, he coolly handed the flower to the young woman beside him (she too was very young. Also very heavily with child.) and said, innocent as a lamb in spring, "Yes, Officer?"

"Young man, didn't you see the sign?"

"What sign?"

"That one." The patrolman said, pointing to it.

"You mean the one that says 'No Picking'?"

"Yes, the one that says 'No Picking'."

"Of course I saw it. It's very nice." The smile he gave would not have been amiss on a saint.

"Do you understand you just broke the law?" the officer demanded sternly, fortifying his heart against any further blandishments this artful one might employ. (Officer Jones tried not to let people know that underneath his Officially Gruff manner, he was a soft touch all the way through).

"Did I?" the lad asked carelessly. "How incautious of me."

Jones sighed heavily and took out his book. "Name."

"What?"

"I want your name."

"Oh, no. I want to keep it. I'd be happy to give you a different name if you like, but –"

"Tell – me – your – name." He bit off the ends of his words, reminding himself that he wife would not be pleased if he did anything drastic. Particularly in front of the man's (boy, really) expectant wife.

"Spot Conlon."

Licking his pencil, the officer wrote it down. "Place of birth?"

"I don't remember."

He looked up and the boy added, almost apologetically, "I was only a little baby at the time."

The young woman, who had been standing quietly by her husband's side, suddenly had a coughing fit.

"Occupation?"

"King."

Giving up on sane answers, the policeman dutifully wrote it down and asked without much hope, "Place of residence?"

"Brooklyn Newsboy Lodging House."

Jones glanced up in surprise. It was the girl who had answered, and the young man looked like he would have been surprised too except he never was. "Thank you, miss."

She nodded back, smiling, then biting her lip asked, "may we go now, please? I'm – I –" her face suddenly went white and she began to fall.

As quickly as Officer Jones moved, Spot – Conlon? was faster. He caught her before she fell and picked her gently up into his arms as though she weighed nothing. "Jeans? Jeans!" he said urgently, and her eyes opened. "Yes, I'm – I'm fine." She struggled to get down. "Truly. I'm sorry, I just…I think I need to lie down."

"Then hold still." He admonished her, and then turned to the policeman. "Officer, can we –" he nodded in the opposite direction with his head, as his hands were rather full.

"Yes, of course. Take your wife home." Jones refrained from saying that she shouldn't have been out in the first place, knowing if his wife had had the chance when she was in the family way, she would have come with him like a shot, disregarding anything he might have had to say on the matter.

"I can walk!" the girl protested, though she didn't look it at all.

Her husband seemed to agree with the Preserver of the Peace's assessment, and said warningly, "Don't even think about getting down or you'll catch it."

The girl suddenly relaxed against the boy's shoulder. "Sir yes sir!"

"That's better."

"Yes dear. Whatever you say dear."

He frowned. "That's not better."

"No dear. Of course not."

"Did you hit your head when you fell or something?" he demanded, "Cut it out. I married a – _Jeans_, not some parroting priss."

His wife laughed. "Sorry, I'll quit. I was nearly ready to throw up anyway. Home, Mr. Conlon?"

"Yes, but I told you not call me that."

"I know, I know."

Feeling rather as though he was an unwanted accessory, Jones cleared his throat, touched his hat and turned to go. He could hear the couple still at it as he continued along his beat, though when he glanced back before he crossed the street he saw the boy shake his head and lean down, while at the same time the girl reached up, so that the last the officer saw of them, they were at something quite different, wrapped up in each other as only husband and wife can be.


	17. Obsession

**A.N. *Peeks out cautiously from behind a convenient door* Um. Hi? I know it's been an atrociously long time since I updated /anything/, but - well - life has a way of getting in the way. Nasty thing. Anyway, I'm back with this little oneshot for you! If anyone is still reading...but! I do have the next (and possibly final) oneshot begun, so it shouldn't be too long before it's posted. So now that you're finished reading this crazy-long note, on with the story!**

* * *

Spot Conlon was staring at a door. Just an common, everyday, normal door. A little battered, perhaps, but undoubtedly a perfectly ordinary door. And he was staring at it with an intensity that bordered on obsessive.

Lest my readers fear for his reason, let me reassure you as to that - Spot had not gone mad, and indeed had a perfectly good reason for staring obsessively at a door. It was between him and Jeans. Admittedly he would not normally have let this bother him a whit - all that had to be done was (1) Open the door or (2) If it were locked, break it down. But in this case he had been given _very_ firm instructions from the midwife, as she helped Jeans into the room and shut the door, that he was under _no_ circumstances to _open_ the door unless she said he could.

So he was limited to staring at it obsessively and wincing every time a barely stifled cry came from beyond it. He had been sitting here for two hours now, watching the door helplessly and hearing only Jeans' cries and the midwife's comforting murmur.

The door to the small tenement flew open and in a trice Spot had the intruder against the wall, then relaxed just as quickly on seeing who it was. "Dash," he said wearily, resuming his watch on the door.

"What's up?" his sister demanded sharply, "Robin said you weren't coming to sell today - is everything all right?"

"Yes," he replied briefly, still staring at the bedroom door. Dash followed his gaze, and then hearing the murmur and pained shriek quickly stifled, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Is it the baby?"

"Yes," he said again, then wretchedly, "Colleen, she's in there - in pain - and I can't do anything about it! I can't even be _with_ her!"

"Hey. It'll be all right, Patrick. Lots of women do this every year and are none the worse for it."

"But this is _Jeans_!" He got up and began pacing restlessly. "What if it's too much and she just gives up? What if the baby is too big? What if it's too small? What if there are complications? What if -"

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Dash spun him around and slapped him. "Spot! Get a hold of yourself. Jeans will be _fine._ There's a midwife in there right now taking care of her, and it won't do her a lick of good for you to be out here stewing over what you can't help. Aren't you always telling me to trust God about things like this?"

Spot had tensed as Dash began talking, but as she ended he relaxed with a tired sigh. "You're right - I know you're right - it's just so _hard_." He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. "I know God is in control - that He's taking care of her, but it can be so hard to have faith." He looked up at his sister with a half-smile. "Thanks, sis."

She smiled back. "Anytime. You want me to sit with you for a while?"

"If you can spare the time..."

"Anything for my big brother." With a friendly punch to his shoulder she sat down beside him.

Half an hour later, Spot and Dash exchanged tense looks. The midwife's litany had changed from a comforting murmur to an encouraging, "Push! Good girl! Now relax - that's right - now push!" and Spot began to pace again, muttering under his breath, "God, help her! O, my Lord, keep her safe!"

It was another agonizing twenty minutes before the door to the bedroom opened and the midwife looked out, smiling. "Congratulations, Mr. Conlon. You have a healthy baby boy."

"And my wife?"

"She's fine."

"Spot!" Jeans' voice came weakly from the room, and glancing questioningly at the midwife, Spot hurried in to her. She smiled up at him, positively glowing. "Look, Patrick. Isn't he beautiful?"

Spot looked down at the mite cradled in the new mother's arms, punching the air with his tiny fists. He reached down and touched one of the hands, almost reverently. "He's perfect."

"Here -" weakly, but oh-so-gently, Jeans laid the boy in his father's arms.

The baby gave a crow - and then, flailing miniature arms about, managed to punch his father in the face. Spot looked at Jeans with a delighted smile. "He's my son, all right." Turning a little, he called, "Colleen!"

Dash came in, looking a little hesitant. "Hi, Jeans."

"Look at them, Dash." Jeans said, smiling, "Don't I have the two most handsome men in all the world?"

Dash looked at Spot, standing holding his son more proudly than ever he had stood before his newsies, and then at Jeans, lying so weak and spent and happy in the bed, and an unwonted smile touched her lips. "He's a lovely baby, Eva." She went over to the bed and, bending down, kissed her sister-in-law. "I'll go tell the newsies."

At the door she turned back. "Do you have a name yet?"

"Alan James Conlon," Jeans answered, "After my father."

The midwife bustled in as Dash left. "All right, my dear, it's time for you to rest. Mr. Conlon, if you would -"

Spot reluctantly laid the baby back down by Jeans and then kissed her tenderly. "I love you."

She smiled. "I love you too - and just disregard anything the midwife tells you I said the past three hours."

Spot chuckled, kissing her again. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She caught at his hand and whispered, "I would do it again in a heartbeat."

* * *

**Thanks to LucyofNarnia, Austra, Me for reviewing! And welcome and a special thanks to Ealasaid Una, whose PM proved the extra jog I needed to write this. Oh, and thanks to my mother for looking this over for me...I figured she was the best to do it, since she's birthed all seven of us...**


	18. Taken

**A.N. Um. I have no excuse. Except I was kidnapped by manic vampire unicorns with sparkly manes and tails who took abandoned me on the Shadowed Planet for...however long it was that I was away. *Pauses* I didn't sell that to anyone, did I? Oh, well. As penance for making you wait so long, I'm posting two chapters at once, in hopes that you will forgive me and belike be so kind and condescending as to leave a review. Enjoy!**

* * *

Spot barreled through the door, already calling. "Jeans! Jeans!"

"What? What is it?" She appeared in the bedroom doorway, the baby tucked firmly in the crook of her arm while the other hand fumbled with the buttons of her dress; she'd just finished nursing Jamie.

"Get whatever you need - you're going to stay with the MacKensies for a while."

"Why?" Brow furrowed, she stared at him anxiously. "What's wrong?"

"Richard Hawkins. He's got Dash and Alto and now he's trying for you. Me and the boys are going to get them back as soon as Cat finds out where they are. I need you and James where I know you're safe."

"Let me come with you, Spot, please, I can fight, I -"

"No!" It exploded out of him, and the baby began to fuss uneasily. His mother soothed him almost absentmindedly as she scowled. Spot sighed heavily and, with an effort, gentled his tone. "Eva...battles are ugly when women fight. And this one will be especially ugly anyway." His face hardened, eyes shifting to fire-hardened blue steel.

Jeans hesitated a moment longer, then gave a short nod. She handed the baby to Spot and disappeared into the bedroom, tumbled things into a bag haphazardly, and hurried out again. "Ready. Does Mrs. Mackensie know we're coming?"

He nodded, eyes flicking over her. "She's expecting you. I told her I don't know how long it'll be; probably not much more than a day. You have your knives?"

Frowning slightly, Jeans checked - one under the skirt she had conceded to wearing after she was married, one on her wrist, and one down the front of her dress - "Yes."

"Good." He handed James to her and opened the door. "Walk fast and don't stop for anything until you get there. I'll have birds watching you, but I don't want you to take any chances. Understood?"

Jeans replied in the affirmative; this was all Spot Conlon, King of Brooklyn talking now, and she was just another one of his newsies, under his authority.

"Good." He said again, and then kissed her, hard. "God speed."

All right, so maybe not _exactly_ just another one of his newsies.

"_Conlon." The voice is smooth, persuasive, and all the less reassuring for that._

"_Dick, isn't it?" Spot's head tilts in studied condescension. "Been a while."_

"_Too long a while." A tall figure steps into sight; he is well-dressed with almost an obsessive attention to detail. "And the name is Richard."_

_Spot considers this. "Nah, you're definitely more of a Dick."_

_But the other is done with pleasantries. "I'm coming for her."_

"_Who?"_

"_Your girl - Jeans, I believe you call her." Richard's mouth twists in a mocking smile. "Such a sweet nickname, really."_

_Spot sighs heavily. "What does it take to get this through people's thick heads - she's my _wife_."_

_Hawkins ignores this. "I'm going to kill her. Hopefully where you can watch me do it."_

"_Is there a reason I'm not going to knock you down multiple times and then let you get up expressly so I can do it again?" the King of Brooklyn's tone is one his enemies have long since learned to fear._

_But the other only gives that mockery of a smile again. "There is, actually. I happen to have your sister in my possession. Oh, and some guy called Alto. You touch me and you lose both your sister and your - wife."_

"_What do you want?" Spot is holding himself back, hand clenched in a death-grip on his cane._

_For the first time Richard Hawkins loses control, hatred twisting his features so much as to be almost unrecognizable. "I want to hurt you. If I had my way I would kill every newsboy in this entire blasted city, but I'm starting with you."_

"_Why?" Spot presses; he needs all the information he can get at this point._

"_You're the most famous newsie in New York. I take you down, it weakens the others." He smiles cruelly. "So run and hide, Conlon. Run and hide."_

Spot's face hardened as he strode through Brooklyn's streets. He had already told Oriole to get all the newsies over fourteen together. With a sharp whistle, Cat materialized at his side. Without looking at her he snapped, "Well?"

The leader of the birds wasted no time on pleasantries. "I tailed him like you said. He took a round about way - kept lookin' over his shoulder - but I took care he didn't see me. Finally ended up at a pretty hoity-toity place. Went in the basement, though, so I'd say that's where he has them."

"Good." Spot turned to her, meeting her eyes. "Cat, once we're in, I want you to get out. Make sure Jeans and the baby are safe. Get it?"

She nodded, expression sober. "Got it."

"Good. Now show me where it is. I'm not leaving Dash in the hands of that scumbag a second longer than I have to."

Fifteen minutes later, a handpicked crowd of determined newsies stood clustered about the basement door of a non-descript, middle-class lodging house. Spot was on the railing of the area, eyes steel-hard as he said, "Listen up. Once we're in, I get dibs on Hawkins. Anyone else, you can take care off. But our main goal is to get Dash and Alto out and get them to safety. Understood?"

There were murmurs of agreement, and everyone readied their grip on their weapon of choice. Spot swung down, cane at the ready, and nodded to Trickster - the best lockpick in the business. He had it open in fifteen seconds and then stepped back, letting his leader take point. Spot listened for a second, then threw open the door, catching the man waiting just inside behind it and slamming him into the wall with a sickening crunch. "Which way?" He growled, cane pressed against the goon's throat. Eyes wide with fear, the man pointed down. Spot dropped him, letting Jackal take him out with a well-placed punch, and flung himself down the rickety ladder into the cellar.

There were eight or so hulking guys standing around - the minion type, mostly - but Spot had eyes only for one man. Richard Hawkins had a hand wrapped around Colleen's arm, hard enough to leave bruises on top of the bruises already there, and a gun to her head. Dash's shirt was ripped and her head was lolling and eyes were glazed over and empty - and the fury that had been building ever since the meeting on the docks roared up and Spot's grip on his cane got impossibly tighter. "Let. Her. Go."

The man smiled, easily, almost daintily. "Sorry, Conlon. Not going to happen. That's what her little flame over there said, too. I didn't even bother answering him."

Spot looked away from Dash long enough to see Alto, looking like he'd been slung in a corner like an old rag doll there was no longer any use for - broken and battered and limp. "Is he dead?" He asked tightly.

"Oh, I shouldn't think so." Richard's head tilted a little, almost consideringly. "Wonderfully resilient fellow, really."

The rest of the newsies were massed behind Spot, waiting restlessly. Hawkins seemed to see them for the first time. "Oh, and if any of your little rag-tag bunch there moves so much as a finger in the direction of my men _someone_ will be missing what little brains they have left."

Spot's hand behind his back spread open in a 'wait' signal. From behind Bully's sheltering bulk, Shadow (the best shot in Brooklyn, after Spot, and now that Bullseye was gone) cautiously pulled out his slingshot and centered his shot on Hawkins' right eye.

"I must say, Conlon, I'm a little disappointed. I thought you'd go running to the police like the little goody-two-shoes you've turned into. Your quean of a wife has made you soft, but apparently you've still got enough backbone and fool's courage to come after me yourself - and bring your ragged band of cutthroats with you." Dick Hawkins smiled, almost pleasantly. "You know what your first mistake was, Spot?"

"Please." Spot gritted out, "Tell me."

"Thinking you could protect them. Your sister, her lover, your wife - and oh, yes. There's a little brat now too, isn't there? You've failed them all. All I have to do is decide which one I'll kill first. Maybe I'll wake up lover-boy over there so he can watch, too. What do you think?"

Spot's hand closed in a vicious fist behind his back and Shadow's prize shooter found its target, smashing into Dick's eye. He let out an agonized scream and dropped the gun and Dash. Spot moved. "Bully, get Alto out of here. Jackal, take Dash." Then he was on Hawkins, a few well-aimed kicks putting an end to the creep's attempts at escape. "You know what I _think_?" he said, pulling Hawkins' face up to his. "I _think_ maybe I should kill you. Right now. What do you _think_ about that?"

Richard's face twisted in fear and rage mingled. "Do it. Just one more thing you'll take away from me."

Spot paused. "One more thing? What did I ever take of yours?"

The other laughed, bitter. "Eva and I were courting once; did she tell you? Then she broke it off - said her _conscience_ wouldn't allow it. Then she goes and marries a ragged _newsie_. She chose _you_ over me. She had your kid - he should have been mine. _Mine!_ You have Eva, a son, a sister who adores you, above a hundred newsies at your beck and call and Brooklyn twisted around your little finger. I wanted to hurt you - I want you to _burn_. So do it - kill me. Then go running back to Eva and your perfect little life. I hope my death haunts you to death and beyond, Conlon."

Spot stood staring down at Hawkins for a moment longer, looking at the broken, twisted face and soul below him, then in a gesture of contempt, dropped him. "I'm not going to kill you, Hawkins. Not because you don't deserve it. But I'm not the Judge. You'll meet him soon enough anyway. Owl," Spot called, turning away.

A sleepy-eyed youngster with tousled hair appeared. "Yeah, Spot?"

"Call the bulls." He looked back over his shoulder at Richard, "Enjoy life in prison, Dick."

Meeting Jackal outside, Spot carefully took his sister from him and with a couple quiet instructions to some of the biggest boys, motioned for Bully to bring Alto and come with him.

An hour later, Dash was settled comfortably in Dr. Johnson's clinic, Alto on the cot beside her, and Spot was pacing anxiously as he waited for the doctor's report. He'd sent Cat to make sure Jeans and the baby were safe and to tell them what had happened.

"Mr. Conlon?"

Spot turned quickly. "Yeah? How's Colleen?"

"Your sister will be fine. Most of her injuries are superficial bruises and should fade fairly quickly, though her use of her left arm might be limited for about a month. The bruises there look severely painful." The doctor looked at Spot steadily. "Truth be told, I'm less worried about her physical state than I am about emotional trauma. Colleen has gone through a very traumatic experience and the repercussions of that could be scarring."

"I'll take care of her," Spot promised.

"Good. As for the young man, his injuries are more serious. Three broken ribs, a leg and an arm apiece broken, a broken nose, two black eyes and heavy bruising everywhere else. I would prefer he stay here for another week so I can keep him under close observation. If he is healing to my satisfaction he can then, of course, go home, provided he rests a great deal and keeps a careful diet. If you'll excuse me, I have some things in the back that require my attention."

Spot nodded his thanks and the doctor left. Spot sat down to wait.

_A Week Later_

True to the doctor's word, Dash was out selling by the next week, to all appearances perfectly fine, though she sold only under the careful supervision of Spot, one or two of the larger boys, and a hand-picked group of Birds. To Spot, this was the biggest indication that she _wasn't_ all right - she didn't make a sound of complaint against the bodyguard. She sold papes in the morning, then made her way to the doctor's office where she would sit by Alto's side for the rest of the afternoon, most of the time saying nothing at all, until it was long past sundown, when she would wearily make her way to the lodging house and collapse on her cot, only to wake an hour later screaming with night terrors.

At the end of the second week Jeans confronted Spot about it. "We need to do something about Dash."

He looked puzzled. "I have. I have most of my birds watching her and Jackal and Bully are with her whenever I can't be."

Jeans rolled her eyes. "That is _not_ what I mean. It might actually be making it worse. Did Vade tell you she hasn't slept more than two hours a night since her capture? Or that in the entire past week combined she only sold 150 papers? Spot, she used to swing over 500 a week. And when she goes to see Alto she just sits there - doesn't even try and talk to him except when he wakes up from _his_ nightmares. You need to talk to her."

Spot shifted, uncomfortable. "I don't know what to say. Eva, I've never...I've always taken care of her, and then this past year...I haven't been as good a brother as I should have been. Then this thing with Hawkins...I just...I don't know what to say."

Jeans reached out a hand to cup his cheek. "Just love her. Offer to listen. Make her feel as safe as you can. Pray for her."

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch. "I'll try."

"Good boy. And Spot? Maybe she could stay here at night, instead of at the lodging house. It might help to be away from so many people, and one or the other of us is up every night with Jamie anyway - we can help her wake up before the nightmares get too bad."

"If you're sure."

"Positive. She's my sister too, you know."

He turned his head and kissed the inside of her hand, then bent to drop a kiss on his son's fuzzy head. "I'll tell her. Thank you."

So Dash moved from stumbling wearily to the lodging house to stumbling wearily to Spot and Jeans' little three room apartment. Jeans hadn't been exaggerating about being up with the baby every night - he seemed to have a knack for sensing exactly when they'd just dozed off and choose that instant to begin wailing - and one night, a few days after she'd come to stay with them, Jeans woke up to Jamie crying and, rolling over, found Spot gone. She waited another minute, but James' crying didn't ease or slow. With a put-upon sigh (why did _she_ have to be the one who had to feed him all the time?) she rolled out of bed and staggered over to the baby's cradle, picking him up out of it and guiding him to nurse absentmindedly as she moved to the main room, intending to ask Spot what on earth he was doing up at this hour without even trying to sooth the baby. But on opening the door, she saw Spot sitting with his arms tight around Dash, gently rubbing her back as she sobbed.

Jeans turned and went quietly back to bed, taking James with her. Through the cracked door she could hear Patrick's low comforting murmur, mingled with Colleen's almost incoherent sobs as she, finally, talked.

The next day when Dash went, as usual, to visit Alto, she sat on his bed, and taking his hand, chattered away on light topics, even going so far as to tease him about the bandages that covered more of his body than not.

And one night, when James cried, Spot woke to see Dash holding him, rocking him gently as she crooned an Irish lullabye.

A month after that, she and Alto announced they were getting married, did so with even less ceremony than Jeans and Spot had, and, after disappearing for two weeks, rented the rooms two floors above them. Both seemed quite recovered from their kidnapping and torture, although Alto would bear the scars for the rest of his life and Dash still had nightmares, though they were less frequent and less intense when they did come, and there was a shadow in their eyes that hadn't been there before and would never leave them entirely.

It is to be hoped that they lived as happily ever after as anyone ever does, and had a great many children who spoke a babbled mixture of English-accented Spanish and Gaelic-accented Spanish and half of whom were exceptionally tall (like Alto) and the other half more than usually short (like Dash and Spot).


	19. Adventures In Babysitting

It was not long after the fiasco with Dick Hawkins that Jeans sallied forth to sell again for the first time since James was born. She had had a long argument with Spot about it, for he was not at all pleased about her selling again, protesting that it was far too dangerous, but Jeans protested right back that they needed the money, and Spot was at last forced to concede the point.

Then Jeans had an even longer argument with herself about what to do with James. Her first thought was to leave him with Mrs. Mackensie, but that lady was currently swamped with orders, and Jeans didn't feel that dumping a six-month-old on her would really be fair. But then, neither did she particularly want to bring him along with her to sell. In the end she decided, a little apprehensively, to leave him at the lodging house.

Various and sundry newsies who sold the evening edition would be there this morning and would be delighted to care for Jamie, but while Jeans had no reservations about the enthusiasm of the caregivers, most of the newsies were a ragged bunch and few knew much about taking care of very new babies.

But with no other solution presenting itself, Jeans bowed to the inevitable and took James to the lodging house, where she deposited him in the care of Jackal, Poker and Sharp, with strict instructions to come and fetch her if they so much as suspected something might be wrong with him.

The three newsies confidently assured her they were sure everything would be fine, and Jeans left, still apprehensive.

What occurred after she left she was told later, by a bird that Spot had (true to form) posted to keep an eye on his son. All went perfectly well for the first half-hour or so, when James suddenly looked up from his industrious chewing on Poker's cards and began to cry. Loudly. The newsies looked at each other in a panic.

"What's wrong with him?" Jackal asked, picking him up tentatively and holding him more like a parcel than a human.

"Maybe he's hungry," Sharp suggested, leaning against the rickety staircase with her arms crossed unconcernedly.

Jackal looked panicked. "What are we supposed to do then? We can't feed him."

Poker, after watching James scream even louder in protest at this handling (with a scrutiny ordinarily reserved for card games), said, "Maybe he needs changed."

Jackal halted his desperate jouncing, a horrified look crossing his face. "What do we do then?"

Sharp huffed. "You guys are pathetic. Give him here. Poker, go get the cloths Jeans left by the door. Jackal, get a rag wet. Lukewarm, not too hot or cold. Ain't you got no little brothers or sistah's?"

Neither newsie answered, both intent on the tasks set.

Sharp glanced around, then laid the baby, still howling, gently on one of the windowsills. As soon as the boys brought the rags, she unpinned James' old catch cloth gingerly.

Here the Bird's narrative was somewhat disjointed, since he was convulsed with laughter at the sight of three of New York's finest newsies nearly die over one baby's dirty catch-cloth.

Starting out bravely enough, Sharp barely managed to get the dirty cloth off and into the washroom before she turned a most becoming shade of green and raced for the lavatory, where she proceeded to get far more reacquainted than she'd ever wanted to with that morning's meal.

Poker and Jackal jeered at her for being put off by "one measly little mess - ain't you got no little brothers 'n' sisters?" but their taunt was abruptly silenced when Sharp reminded them, between bouts of turning her stomach inside out, that James still had to be cleaned up an a fresh cloth put on him.

They both paled and Sharp smirked at them before groaning and heaving again.

Poker and Jackal exchanged wary glances and Poker said, "I'll shoot you for it."

Jackal nodded. "Best out of three?"

Poker won, pulling scissors all three times, and with a hollow groan, Jackal went back to the room and the screaming, messy baby waiting for him.

Despite helpful (not) advice from Poker ("Fold it long-wise, not square." "The pin came undone." "You missed a bit.") and the intrinsic difficulties of babies' catch-cloths, Jackal finally managed to get James clean and re-dressed and dumped him in Poker's arms. "I need a smoke," he declared, and disappeared out the window.

Poker looked at James. James looked at Poker. "Well, kid, I guess it's just you'n me."

James' face screwed up and Poker started bouncing him frantically. "Hey, hey, don't cry, Jamie, it's all okay, c'mon, man, don't do this to me - shhh, it's all good, Jims."

James, not soothed by this litany of reassurances, began to cry again. Poker looked around, then in a flash of inspiration driven by desperation, grabbed Spot's spare slingshot that he kept at the lodging house in case of emergencies and thrust it into the baby's flailing fist. James opened his eyes and looked at it for a minute, then put it into his mouth and started sucking contentedly.

Poker breathed a sigh of relief, but as soon as he moved to put James down the baby again began to cry. Poker snatched him back up quickly and James quieted again. The newsie heaved a sigh and began to walk.

When Jeans came back, tired but with a fairly good take, she found Poker slumped in a corner, Jamie playing happily with the newsie's hair.

Smothering a grin, Jeans asked, "So how did it go?"

Poker's head jerked up, and at the sight of Jeans his eyes widened in almost comical relief. He scrambled up and thrust the baby into her arms. "Here's your kid. Shoot me if I ever agree to take care of him again." And he disappeared.

Jeans looked at the baby in her arms, who blinked up at her innocently. She sighed, "Jamie, what did you _do_?"

James grinned. "ArgleBHUPHL!"

* * *

...and there you are! I feel it only fair to warn you, though, that this story is to all intents and purposes, over. If I ever get bitten by a rabid plot bunny I may add to it, but I feel that I've pretty much come as far as I can with it, and I'd like to move on to other things and genres. Thank you all so very much for being such faithful readers and reviewers. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your support! Much love,

Eavis


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